by Clee, Adele
“It has a certain reputation for attracting the dissolute,” she replied.
“I know it well.”
“Then you know the proprietor.”
Every new patron seeking entrance to the club had to arm wrestle the Irishman with bushy red brows. “Dermot Flannery has a fondness for throwing non-payers into the Thames. Often with a cannonball shackled to one ankle.”
“That is a fictional tale used to scare the children.” A smug grin formed on the lady’s lips. “Even so, he is not the proprietor.”
Damian snorted. “Trust me, I have been a patron of that club for years and have met Flannery on many occasions.”
“Of course you have. Dermot Flannery is paid handsomely to play his part.”
Intrigued, Damian straightened. “Then who the hell owns the club?”
“I do.”
It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate.
“I beg your pardon?” Perhaps he had misheard.
“I own The Silver Serpent.”
“If this is a ploy to impress me—”
“Why on earth would I want to impress you? The details of ownership are irrelevant. But to satisfy your insatiable curiosity, know that my father purchased the club in my aunt’s name. The conditions of her will stated that Mr Flannery would act in my stead until I came into my inheritance on my twenty-first birthday.”
Damian dragged his hand down his face as he tried to absorb the shocking information. One pressing question burst forth. “Then why marry Steele when you had only to wait to claim your inheritance?”
“Because I knew nothing about the club until Mr Flannery found me a year ago.”
“How is that possible? Surely your father informed you of your legacy. Surely he left financial matters in the hands of a solicitor.”
The widow sighed. “My father trusted no one other than Mr Flannery. He went to great lengths to keep the information from me. Upon my father’s death, Mr Flannery was instructed to retrieve me from the seminary, but that is where things get far more complex.”
By all accounts, his life wasn’t the only one based on secrets and lies.
“And it did not occur to you to tell me all this during our meeting at the inn?”
“What? While locked in a bedchamber with you half-dressed? Forgive me if I struggled to concentrate on the matter at hand. Besides, you seemed so confident in your desire to act impulsively, and I needed to know I could trust you.”
For the second time since reacquainting with the widow, the pang of shame returned. She was right. Arrogance was his downfall. He had made too many assumptions, presumed there must be a certain element of exaggeration when it came to the mounting death threats.
“And you trust me now?”
“More than I did when we met at The Cock and Magpie.”
He wasn’t sure what had changed since their meeting at the inn. Indeed, he hadn’t made things easy. Anger and frustration—that she hid her true nature behind this ridiculous disguise—still gnawed away inside. Needles of guilt pricked his conscience, too. Perhaps he should have offered the poor actress more than food and firewood. Made a noble gesture to help her, one that did not involve making her his mistress.
“And so Joshua Steele knows you own the debts he incurred at The Silver Serpent?”
“Yes, but he thinks I purchased his vowels from Mr Flannery. Society believes the Widow can do anything she sets her mind to.”
“Why did Joshua not repay the debts upon gaining his inheritance?” Surely when Lord Steele died, he left his son a reasonable sum.
“Because he inherited his father’s sizeable debts. And there is little he can do with the entailed property.”
“That gives him a strong motive for wanting you dead.”
It occurred to him that Dermot Flannery had a motive for murder, too, and things suddenly became far more complicated than a wallflower’s need to steal attention away from her stepmother. And to think he had practically nuzzled the chit’s scrawny neck to gain a confession.
“Not only that,” she began, and Damian wondered if there would be an end to these constant revelations. “My husband was a patron. In exchange for persuading Mr Flannery to wipe his debts, he gave me the house in Bedford Street. A house unentailed, but one previously promised to Joshua.”
Despite this sudden outpouring of facts, something told him the widow still withheld information. “And who inherits should you meet your demise?” The answer might lead them to the culprit.
“Joshua inherits the house in Bedford Street as per my agreement with his father. And for his loyal service, Mr Flannery inherits the club.”
So both men would gain from the widow’s death. If Damian were betting on the guilty, he’d place his odds on Flannery. He had means, motive, the wherewithal to kill a person with his bare hands.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, staring him in the eye. He didn’t doubt it. She had a knack for reading his mind. “Mr Flannery is not responsible for the crimes committed against me. My father trusted him, as do I.”
Truly? So why did her actions imply otherwise?
“Then why seek me out when Flannery is the perfect person to act as your protector?” There wasn’t a man in the ton who would cross the Irishman, nor a man in the rookeries based on what Damian had heard. Or were they just fairy stories, too?
“Because Mr Flannery cannot move about in society. Because I do not want anyone to know I am associated with the club.” She paused, a pink blush staining her cheeks. “Because if I told you the real reason I sought you out, where would the fun be in that?”
Curiosity burned in his chest.
“If it is fun you want, Widow, you’ve hired the right man.”
A chuckle escaped her luscious lips. “I did not hire you, Mr Wycliff, but I own your debt until it is repaid.”
He pasted an arrogant smile, but it occurred to him that the owner of The Silver Serpent must hold many men’s vowels. That this task to find the rogue responsible for the attacks might prove impossible.
The carriage rattled to a halt, dragging him from his reverie.
Damian peered out into the night and noted they had arrived in Bedford Street.
“Would you like me to escort you inside?” he said, not because it was part of his role as enquiry agent and protector. Not because he had a reputation for being a man who could seduce most women into bed. But because he cared about her welfare more than he dared to admit. “Perhaps we could both use a drink to lighten the mood.”
A nervous smile played on her lips, similar to the one he’d witnessed on the night in the lodging-house when she had asked to share a bed. “I do not wish to keep you from an evening filled with frivolity.”
“At least permit me to check the house for intruders.”
She shook her head. “There is no need. The locksmith changed the locks, and I dismissed the two staff hired from Mr Truman’s registry.”
An uncomfortable sense of trepidation almost made him insist, but he was not a man who pleaded or begged. “Then shall we continue our conversation tomorrow? I should like to hear of the complicated events that prevented Flannery from collecting you from the seminary.”
Her breathing suddenly came a little quicker, and she drew in a deep breath. “Can we not focus our efforts on persuading Joshua to confess? Perhaps I should hire a runner to track his movements. Equally, Jemima despises me to the depths of her soul. Perhaps she knows more about the situation than we think.”
Damian narrowed his gaze. What was she hiding?
“Yes, we will do all you said, but the Steele siblings are not our only suspects.”
“Mr Flannery is not a suspect.”
“He is a suspect with as much to gain as Joshua Steele,” Damian argued.
“No.”
“No?”
“My father treated him like a brother.”
“Jealousy and rivalry see brothers striking their kin with the speed of a rearing cobra.” The flaw i
n her logic became suddenly apparent. “You knew nothing of their association until Mr Flannery found you a year ago. How do you know they were close?”
Her bottom lip quivered, and the lines between her brows grew prominent. It took her a few seconds to replace her widow’s mask. “I have become quite adept at reading men, Mr Wycliff. I would know if Mr Flannery were insincere.”
“Some men are good at hiding their true feelings.”
“Like you?” she countered, for this lady was exceptional in defending an attack. “You are not as inscrutable as you would like to believe.”
He found the observation both amusing and terrifying.
A gnawing unease settled in his chest, but that did not prevent him from sporting a grin and saying, “It’s unwise to taunt the devil.”
“Even when the devil is a monster of your own creation?”
“Even then.”
Their gazes remained locked. No doubt his eyes were as dark as the unburnt coals in hell. Her heavenly blue eyes held an unexplainable power capable of cutting through his facade. Both refused to back down from this standoff. She had found a way to crawl under his skin, those cunning hands caressing away every objection, smoothing out the hard edges, jagged planes.
The need to shake free from her intense stare saw him shoot across the carriage to sit at her side, so close their thighs touched.
“If I am so easy to read, what am I thinking now, Widow?” he snapped, every word filled with contempt.
A smile crept into her eyes, and he’d be damned if he knew what she was thinking. “You look like you want to murder me, Mr Wycliff. Murder me and make love to me at the same time.”
Damnation!
He might change her name to the Scarlet Witch!
“Fighting and fornicating are the only things I know.” The need to drag her onto his lap and do the latter thrummed in his veins.
“That’s the devil talking. Attempting either will merely prove my point.”
Anger flared.
Without further contemplation, he rapped hard on the roof. The carriage rocked on its axis as the groom scampered down from the box seat, opened the door and lowered the steps.
“I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside,” he said, the words tinged with the arctic frost of a man who wanted not to care. “Vauxhall or a gambling hell?”
As soon as the lady’s feet touched the pavement, she whirled around and said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Where would you like to go tomorrow evening? Dancing at Vauxhall to spy on Joshua Steele, or would you rather play hazard at The Silver Serpent so I might observe Mr Flannery?”
“Dancing?” She raised her chin. “You strike me as a man who rarely takes to the floor. I imagine your hardened heart is immune to the power of a passion-filled melody.”
The widow was right on the first count, wrong on the second.
Music reminded him of what he had lost.
Powerful melodies always tugged at his heartstrings.
“I am sure you will have no shortage of partners,” he replied, and yet he had a sudden urge to call out any man who dared offer.
She smiled. “Vauxhall it is, then. Will you call for me at eight?”
“We’ll take supper, so I shall call at seven.”
“Very well. Good night, Mr Wycliff. I imagine it is relatively early for you. I’m sure Mrs Crandell will have some form of exotic entertainment planned.”
“Good night …” For a reason unbeknown, he stopped himself from adding the word widow. “Mrs Crandell is hosting a harem party tonight. There are to be bare-chested footmen in turbans and scantily clad dancers who shake their generous hips while jingling bells.”
Her amused expression faded. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Like the rest of the demi-monde, I am sure you’re eager to indulge your wild fantasies.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, though his wildest and somewhat reluctant fantasy involved stripping the widow bare and using his tongue to trace every scar.
Damian watched her enter the house, spent a few minutes staring at the closed front door before instructing Cutler to take him home. After the many revelations this evening the only things he sought with any certainty amounted to a stiff drink and his own bed.
He untied his cravat and propped his feet on the seat opposite. The widow’s intoxicating scent swamped the air, an expensive perfume with the sensual notes of amber and vanilla. The aroma teased his senses, fed his lust. But it was the smell of cheap soap on clean skin he remembered. Craved. A potent bouquet that with every inhalation had the power to nourish his soul.
Removing his silver flask from his inside coat pocket, he swallowed the last mouthful of brandy while replaying the night’s events.
Not being as proficient as the widow at reading minds, he wondered what prompted her decision to choose Vauxhall. Might it be the opportunity to flaunt her infamy, to rouse a pang of jealousy in his chest? That thought dragged a chuckle from his lips. And yet he wished that was the reason. The only other motive drew him back to The Silver Serpent and his widow’s many secrets. Indeed, he suspected in choosing to visit Vauxhall, she meant to keep him away from the gaming hell. To keep him away from the notorious Dermot Flannery.
Chapter Eight
The news of Mr Wycliff’s arrival sent Scarlett’s stomach flipping. An odd flurry of emotions made her dizzy. It was not at all like the sinking, sickening sensation one experienced their first time on stage. It felt different from those rare times she had peered out of the seminary window to see her father climb the front steps. Then, her heart had swelled, swelled to prodigious proportions. Now, the thought of spending an evening with Damian Wycliff caused delicious tingles to race from her fingers to her toes.
But it wasn’t the young woman who tended to his wounds and bathed his brow who arrived to greet him. Good Lord, no! She was liable to smile at him in the tender way that left her heart open. Exposed.
No!
Dressed in a gown of midnight-blue with a neckline that skimmed the collarbone to hide her scar—and wearing her confidence like an extravagant accessory—the Scarlet Widow descended the stairs.
He was waiting.
Clothed in black and with the same inscrutable expression others found impossible to read, he watched her descend as Lucifer might study a newcomer at the gates of hell.
The long-case clock in the hall struck seven as her foot touched the bottom step.
As the last chime faded, Scarlett offered the gentleman her hand. “Mr Wycliff, regardless of the terrible things people say about you, you have impeccable timekeeping.”
Wearing a grin sourced from an exotic land—striking, unique and with more than a hint of mystery—he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her glove. Dark, devilish eyes roamed over the ruby-encrusted comb in her hair, lingered on the exposed skin at the base of her neck.
“When a man lives life to excess, he doesn’t waste a minute.” Mr Wycliff released her hand and moistened his lips. “Might I say it’s somewhat surprising to see you in a colour other than black or red.”
“When a lady lives to cause scandal, she does her best to appear unpredictable.”
Their gazes locked. The air thrummed with an intense energy. The sudden rush of desire nearly knocked her off her feet. Heat swirled in her stomach. She cleared her throat, lest he notice the quickening of her breath.
The clip of the butler’s shoes on the tiled floor broke the spell. Hanson carried her red silk pelisse, but it was Mr Wycliff who took the garment, held it up for her to slip her arms inside and who smoothed the material over her shoulders with his large masculine hands.
“I’m afraid we have company,” he said, dismissing Hanson with a nod. “Cavanagh and Trent will join us this evening. While they will remain nearby, they know to grant us an element of privacy.”
The last word rolled so seductively off his tongue nerves banished her initial disappointment. How long could she maintain the facade? How long could she maint
ain a sense of indifference?
Long enough to protect her heart, she hoped.
“Are you speaking about the gentlemen who enjoy watching you fondle your conquests?” Veiled contempt worked wonders when attempting to hide one’s feelings. “If you have another engagement at Vauxhall you only need say. Lady Rathbone is sure to attend and will invite me to dine in her booth.”
Mr Wycliff arched a brow. “You’re dining with me, no one else.” The possessiveness in his tone should have roused her old fears, should have made her bolster her defences, and yet it only fed her excitement. “Tonight, you have my undivided attention. I’m the only gentleman permitted to stroll with you along Lovers Walk.”
“Of course,” she began, pressing her fingers more firmly into her gloves. “When a lady takes you as her lover, Mr Wycliff, she has no need to spend time in another man’s company.”
“Precisely.”
A sudden image of his hard, sweat-soaked body flashed into her mind. The tender ache between her thighs stole her concentration. It took every effort not to stare at him and sigh.
“I, too, need to alter our plans,” she said, grateful she did not appear as one of those women forced to agree with everything he said or did.
“You are coming to Vauxhall?” The fine lines around his eyes crinkled.
“Yes, but to appease Alcock I have said she might ride atop the box with your coachman.”
Mr Wycliff drew his head back. “Cutler will not permit her interference.”
“Then you may inform him that he has no choice.”
He gave a mocking snort. “You may inform your coachwoman that she is remaining at home.”
They stood, battle shields touching.
Scarlett considered her options. Some ladies might use their womanly wiles to persuade him, but she knew that would prove fruitless. Her only option was to retreat and attack from a different position.
“You must understand, Mr Wycliff, Alcock fears for my life. The first three attacks took place outdoors. Vauxhall hosts a wealth of opportunity when one is intent on murder.”
